The Lost Apothecary(79)

“Hi,” I whispered back.

I put a few pillows behind James’s back so he could more comfortably sit up, then handed him the menu for the hospital’s cafeteria. I insisted it was no problem to go out and order him real food, but the hospital’s menu wasn’t half bad.

After he placed his order, I prayed he wouldn’t ask more questions about the police, like why they thought I poisoned him. If James asked what prompted the interrogation, he’d want to see the notebook himself. But for now, I meant to keep it between Gaynor and myself.

After I’d shared the photos with Gaynor, she agreed not to divulge what I’d told her. She realized my life was chaotic enough given the situation with James, and since she had not been directly involved in the discovery of the apothecary shop, she didn’t feel it her place to dictate my next steps. That said, she did ask me to think very carefully about what I would do with this information, given the precious historical nature of what I’d found. I could hardly blame her; she worked at the British Library, after all.

Now, the reality was that only two of us knew the full truth; only Gaynor and I knew about the workplace of the murderous apothecary who lived two hundred years ago, and the unbelievable source of information she left buried deep within the bowels of an old cellar. Once this present crisis was behind me, I would have to make a few difficult decisions about what to reveal, and how, and to whom—and how this played into my own, recently resurfaced passion for history.

To my relief, James didn’t seem interested in reliving what had happened a few hours ago. “I’m ready to get back,” he said, taking a sip of water while I perched on the side of his bed.

I raised my eyebrows. “You just got here last night. The flight home isn’t for another eight days.”

“Trip insurance,” he explained. “A hospital stay is more than enough reason to file a claim on the cost to get home. As soon as I’m out of here, I’ll rebook my flight.” He toyed with the edge of the bedsheet, then looked at me. “Should I book you a seat, too?”

I blew out a sigh. “No,” I said gently. “I’ll take the original flight home.”

Disappointment flashed in his eyes, but he quickly recovered. “Fair enough. You need space, I get that. I shouldn’t have come out here at all. I realize that now.” A few moments later, a member of the hospital staff appeared with a tray and set James’s dinner in front of him. “It’s only eight days, at least,” James added, digging ravenously into his meal.

My breath quickened. Here we go, I thought. Sitting cross-legged at the end of his bed, a corner of his bedsheet over my lap, it almost felt like we were back in Ohio, back into our normal routine. But we would never know our old “normal” again.

“I’m quitting my job at the farm,” I said.

James paused, a bite of potato suspended in front of his mouth. He set the fork down. “Caroline, a lot’s going on. Are you sure you don’t want to—”

I rose from the edge of the hospital bed, standing tall. I could not fall victim to this talk of reason, not again.

“Let me finish,” I said softly. I looked outside, my gaze scanning the London skyline. A panorama of new against old: trendy shopfront windows reflected the pearl-gray dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, and red tour buses sputtered past long-standing landmarks. If there was anything that the last few days had taught me, it was the importance of shining new light on old truths hidden in dark places. This trip to London—and finding the light blue vial, the apothecary—had exposed them all.

I turned away from the window to face James. “I need to choose me. I need to prioritize me.” I paused, wringing my hands together. “Not your career, not our baby, not stability and not what everyone else wants of me.”

James stiffened. “I’m not following.”

I glanced at my bag, inside of which were the two articles about the apothecary. “At some point along the line, I lost a part of who I am. Ten years ago, I envisioned something much different for myself, and I’m afraid I’ve abandoned that vision altogether.”

“But people change, Caroline. You’ve grown up in the last ten years. You’ve prioritized the right things. It’s okay to change, and you—”

“It’s okay to change,” I interrupted, “but it’s not okay to hide, to bury parts of ourselves.” I didn’t feel the need to remind him that he’d hidden a few things about himself, too, but I refused to address the other woman at this exact moment. This conversation was about my dreams, not James’s mistakes.

“Okay, so you want to quit your job and wait for a baby.” James took a shaky breath. “So, what do you plan on doing?” I sensed he meant not only with my job, but also with our marriage. And though James’s tone wasn’t condescending, it was laced with skepticism—just like ten years ago, when he first asked me how I planned to land a job with my history degree.

I now stood at a crossroads, and I didn’t dare look back at the road behind me—the road littered with monotony, complacency and other people’s expectations.

“I’m going to stop hiding from the truth, which is that my life isn’t what I want it to be. And to do that—” I hesitated, knowing once I said my next words, I could never take them back. “To do that, I need to be alone. And I don’t mean for eight more days in London. I mean alone, for the foreseeable future. I intend to file for a separation.”